


The Dark And Stormy Blue

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Abuses Againts Humanity, Amputee Kink, Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Use, Fetishizing Loss Of Body Parts, Horror, Human Trafficking, M/M, Necrophilia, Overall Do Not Read This Unless You Have A Prepared Stomach, Pain Kink, Past Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Prostitution, Rape, S&M, Sex-Trade, Slash, Torture, Torture Porn, Violence, Zoophilia Implied, death kink, domination and submission, flaying, living dolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: One was a mercenary without reason, goal or aim and another one was a pirate on a hunt for fortune and his own place under the sun. The tale of how Buck Hughes and Hoyt Volker met – on a ship of slaves, torment and rotting bodies. It was not a story with a happy beginning, and it was certainly not a story with a happy ending.





	

_-“The ship, it swayed, heave ho, heave ho,_  
_On the dark and stormy blue,_  
_And I held tight to the Captain's might_  
_As he pulled up his trews._  
_"You haven't slept," heave ho, he said,_  
_"In many suns and moons."_  
_"Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore,"_  
_"And pray we get there soon.”-_

**(In All My Dreams I Drown)**

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was a torture ship.  
Sailing dark, lonely, unmarked waters.  
Wondering no-man’s seas before the turn of the milennia.  
Piracy wasn’t such a far-fetched profession, Hoyt understood.  
It was certainly not as romantic as stories made it out to be.  
This crew of theirs wasn’t dashing, wasn’t gallant.  
It certainly wasn’t kind or forgiving.  
Certainly not fairytale material.

 

 

The first time he found himself in this unseemly company of butcherers, murderers, rapists, cannibals, drug-addicts, weapon smugglers, pimps and maniacs, after the mysterious death of Cobus Volker reported by every news station in Johannesburg and across South Africa as a whole which he “ by all means had nothing to do with” in a sense of deep cynicism and sarcasm – Volker immediatelly knew he stumbled upon likeminded men with likeminded goals. People would pay a small fortune for sex, of course. A story as old as time itself. But, fetishes varied. The first rule of being a merchant of the flesh is to understand that certain customers had – rather peculiar tastes. A thing he learned from his father. A thing he later learned from his new Boss and mentor too. Some Obasi-Baba Gonzaga. A a fullblooded, darkskinned, proud mix of Brazillian, Zimbabwean, Arabic and Indian heritages fucked into one. An overweight, stout man constantly overswetting and constantly out of breath. Dressed in mismatched, overcolorized, animal-printed clothing which truly marked the trappings of his pussy-trading profession. He wore an eyepatch and tottered a South-African passion gap between his teeth. Man knocked his own frontals out purely to prove alligance to a Joburg street gang back home, so the rumor went. He introduced Hoyt to a whole world of dark desires, not that Hoyt needed special introduction. He boarded this ship rotten as the inside of a dead man’s heart. But, hese individuals – these guests on his superior’s yatchs – they were paying for murder on stage. Mutilation. Beheadings. Public rape. Executions. Slow and detailed and so very precise and grotesque. All these rich, idle, perverse old goats stroking themselves to what was going on before them. They reminded him of Papa-dearest. They reminded of him of Cobus. All oil-magnates. Politicians. Celebrities. Big-shots. Crime-Bosses. Wallstreet Bankers. Mobsters. Fat-cats. Senators. Depraved oil-shieks. The House of Saud. The one-percenters unhinged. The past was unreleving itself in front of him, haunting him into the present and the future.

 

They had the tendency of bringing in only the most beautiful of women.  
Of men, of boys, of girls, of children – anything and everything.  
Animals, during certain occasions, for a special delivery.  
Hoyt himself often wondered where they found these.  
These little angels – all perfection and gasps.  
All so gorgeous, pure and innocent.  
They were almost a sin to be harmed.  
To be cut, to be sprung, to be damaged, broken.  
Empasis on the “almost” – he had little compassion left.  
Little mercy or the need to be a wholesome, forgiving, kind man.  
Hoyt raped and has been raped – it was no novelty to him anymore.  
But, never in all his years has he beheld so many lovelives in one place at once.  
Not in papa’s brothels, not in the motherland, not in any strip-club, not in any joint.

 

 

The poor little things expected the usual. To be sold and used up as whores until they die or succumb to some foreign discease. The commonplace scenario when kidnapped and taken by trading ship off the coastaline of Africa, no? The truth was far more steep, of course. They would be dressed up. Pampered. Prepared. Made to look even more beautiful, if it was humanly possible. Given the treatment of darling princesses and then up on display. Put on show and parade. If the costomer demanded that they’re cut from balls to brain on a grizzly, raw butchering table with their organs and entrails dripping all over the deck floor for whatever hefty price Obasi-Baba might deem fit while they’re convulsing from all the coke and heroine on the other side of saloon, then that’s exactly what was going to happen. They’re weren’t going to be just sluts. Oh, no. They were going to be pain-sluts. Angelic, fuckable, wanton pain-sluts. Hoyt loved it. The very idea often times made him go so terribly hard that his cock twitched, burned and ached the way it never did for anyone before and he found himself transforming into a demon. He turned into a lusty bastard, he knew. Life was good back then. It consisted of fucking, cutting, flaying, robbing and ripping. He was young. He was full of energy. He believed he could grab the world by the troath and ravage it bloody as was due. It attracted him. It attracted other devils of the flesh similar to himself. From all walks of life. From all parts of the planet. All colors, all backgrounds and all creeds. Ex-cuttroaths running from the law. Military men left penniless and unemployed after the fall of the Apartheid. The sick, the twisted and repulsive. One Buck Hughes seeking entertaiment wherever entertaiment was to be had. With the living or the death. The fool appearantly had no trouble fucking what he killed, killing what he fucked, and eating both of the alike.

 

When he first met the cheeky cunt – his impression was to be unphased.  
When you witness so many terrors, so many sights – you become numb to it all.  
Nothing really shocked Hoyt anymore, nothing touched him, nothing provoked him.  
He could easily say that he died somewhere before the age fifteen-sixteen or so.  
That being burried and placed into a coffin was merely a goddamn formality.  
But, the way this man dealt with the hostages, the way he danced with them.  
The way he handled his hunting knife, the way he etched into the meat.  
The way he made them scream and scream for hours to no end.  
The way he could keep them alive for months.  
Preventing them from bleeding out.  
From finding refuge in death.

 

Buck was a born, talanted artist, much like himself in all his lack of humbleness, and to an extent Hoyt came to love him right away in that odd way only he himself know how. He was a mercenary from Melbourne aboard the ship of nightmares dreams sailing the storminess of the ocean barrier, making small, downtime penny after the military had him honorably discharged from service. He tried to rape a fellow private in the bunker, voices whispered. Had the poor boy stripped, bound and straddled when they were discovered. – now he was a hired-muscle for a cohort of pirates arranging fetishistic torture shows in the replica of the underground Scandinavian sex-bars where every drink comes served with someone’s recorded death in the private backrooms. Hideous people, those Norsemen. But, this? This was a man after his own heart, Volker believed, he recognized his heavy accent right away. There was a natural sort of rivalry between Australians and South Africans, whether it be sporting events, politics, diplomacy – but Hoyt was determined to show him South Africa beats Australia at leats in one instance. Bambi, as he discovered his embarassing, laugh-worthy real name was writhing beneath him that very night, begging and sweating and pleading like a little virgin who never been probed by a man before. Hoyt fucked well, he was told before. He liked it rough, fast and bruising – just the way he liked killing. After the seventh time he made the tattoeod, buff stallion he was riding like an animal in heat cum he lit up a cigar, sat on the edge of the squeaking, worn cabin matress and drew out six straight lines of white powder completely wasted. If there was another way of making friends and allies, he wouldn’t have known about it.

 

_-“Mate, you never seemed like the type.”-_

 

Bambi remarked from his side of the bed, somewhat jokingly, with a dash of cynicism, sprawled out in the manner of a big, well-fed, lazy cat and before the baffoon could clarify any further, breathless as he was, Volker was immediatelly aware what he was talking about. He was unnassuming. That was the trick. Not to let them read you. Not to let them see through. Not to let them see you coming. Hughes certainly didn’t. That was, of course, his undoing. Someone shrieked from the corridors. A gasp of torment from one of the holding-cells filled with the distant rattling of chains. Hoyt almost felt himself going hard again. Everything about this place was carnal. Hellish. Inviting. So very red. So filled with desire. Hallucinations. Lucid-wondering. He hardly believed it to be real.

 

_-“I don’t seem like what? The type of rut you into oblivion or the type to go for men? I’ll save us both the time for stupid questions and answer right now. There’s not a thing I haven’t tried and there’s not a thing I wont try. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Bambi?”-_

 

Hoyt chuckled wickedly, releasing a searing puff of smoke with his bare back turned to his nude bedfellow chuckling in the heavy, opulent darkness of the shiphole, putting special empasis on the name he knew Buck hated so much – it was true. The man who took his innocence was his own father. The man who taught him the sins of flesh was also his father. For the longest time his first lover was his father. Sure, Hoyt has had occasional run-ins with whores, strippers, maids, streetwalkers, strumpets and cokehead whores filling to spread their legs for a bag of some low-quality, cheap trash, but, in the end it was always Cobus Volker. It was raining outside. The water droplets harshly thudding and whipping againts the tiny, round window of the iron deckhouse. They were somewhere off the beaches of Indonesia. The new batch of women they brought in proved especially resillient. Their limbs had to be amputated and fastened unto stakes so they can crawl around like doll-like spiders like each of the senses dulled. This client had strict demands. Hoyt had strict demands too. He was more rigid then a rock and he found his hand instinctually stroking his length as Buck snuck behind his back, put his large hands around thighs and offered to help – pulling him and seating him on his lap. Before Volker could react, Buck was furiously kneading him up and down, the Australian’s erect, uncut, thick cock at the very entrance of his shaft, ready to pierce. What good kid. The yelling only got louder and Hoyt’s need to practically mate with anyone in sight only got stronger. He was a lecherous madman nowadays. Like a warewolf under a full-moon.

 

_-“Why are you here? I’m here for the booze, dough, puss and all the rest. What ‘bout you? They say you’re educated. That daddy was rich. Very rich.”-_

 

Hughes was practically gasping, attempting to lift him up and down and impale him on his dick and take him up the goddamn ass, like some untrained choir-boy jacking off behind the altar – but Hoyt didn’t intend to let him run the show the way he pleased, especially not after mentioning Cobus’ name, brining all sorts of unessecary flashbacks to mind when Volker suddenly turned heads, hissing like a venomous snake, facing him, chest to chest, eye to eye, intending to ride instead of being ridden, in pure anger, pinning the larger man down with his hips and holding him place. Hoyt might have been skinny, but they underestimated him often. He was far tougher then he looked. He couldn’t count the amount of times they fucked tonight, but it was happening again. Hoyt was holding him by the troath, both hands wrapping themselves around Bambi’s neck and squeezing, topping him as he milked his cock into a progress of a faster pace. He was lucky enough to grab his discarded leather belt and bind Buck’s hands to the pillars the moving bed. He intended to put this oaf through hell tonight. He wanted him limping tomorrow on deck duty. Let the Boss scold him! He would merely stand aside an smile like a clueless angel.

 

_-“Fame, fortune and treasure. Like all pirates. I want my own island too. Maybe two!”-_

 

Hoyt could answer, in pure delight.  
Only semi-joking and only semi-serious.  
Revealing his future plans through playful satire.  
The thunders cracking outside on the dark and stormy blue.  
He swore he heard a chainsaw down in the dungeons but quickly ignored it.  
He had a delicacy beneath himself – disregarding Buck’s tormented, needy cock.  
Instead, sitting down on the man’s reddened face and rubbing up againts him.  
The Australian’s tongue licking and cleaning him out like a good pup.  
Knowing fully well how much he needed that genuine release.  
Knowing fully well there was nothing he could do about it.  
Bound, helpless and imprisoned as he was right now.  
He trapped Hughes’ mouth with his hips.  
Ball-tormenting him with his own two legs.  
Squeezing it out hard into the temptestual night.  
He didn’t intend to make it easy – he wanted some begging.  
He wanted the man to suffer, much like he wanted everyone to suffer.  
Cobus’ face came to mid-climax and it only served to deny satisfaction even further.  
Making them sway 'round as the waves and the wind outside clashed through the darkness of the clouds.

 

It was a ship of torture.  
Death-parades, fuck-dolls, grotesques.  
The hardly imaginable and the utterly unimaginable.  
Of all the humanitarian abuses one’s paltry mind can conjure.  
But, for Hoyt – it was the worst of times, it was the best of times.  
He was serving in the mouth of hell, but he indeed, felt like a God.


End file.
